


Was Never Much (But We've Made The Most)

by Lothiriel84



Series: Welcome Home [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Developing Relationship, F/M, Gen, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1678166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/pseuds/Lothiriel84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why Crowborough?" she asked, peeking out of the train window, and he merely shrugged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Was Never Much (But We've Made The Most)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 13 on tumblr. It can be read either as a sequel of _Like A Row Of Captured Ghosts (Over Old Dead Grass)_ , or as a standalone fic.

“Why Crowborough?” she asked, peeking out of the train window, and he merely shrugged.

“Why not?” he shot back, and they fell into a somewhat comfortable silence.

The truth was that he wanted to take her away from London, and this was as good a place as any; there was nothing to remind her of Moriarty here, nothing to disturb her recovering process.

He needed the old Molly back, needed it more than he had ever thought was possible. Sentiment, he scoffed inwardly, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“You know, Lestrade was there to ask me out that day,” she murmured in a small voice. “If he hadn’t –”

“Don’t,” he warned, his fingers closing gently around her wrist. Molly relaxed into the touch, her eyes meeting his at last.

“He’s a good man,” she added almost as an afterthought. “And I like him, though not that way.”

“I’m sorry,” he said then, though he wasn’t quite sure whether he was sorry about the whole Moriarty debacle, or that she was still pining for him after all those years.

“Don’t be,” she let out in a whisper, her eyes both serious and tender.

And he decided that whatever this was between them, he didn’t mind it at all. Not even her fingers reverently touching the fabric of his Belstaff.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to know why I picked Crowborough of all places, just google 'Arthur Conan Doyle' and you'll get the answer.


End file.
